The Hunter
by vandevere
Summary: Werewolf 1987 Eric Cord and Alamo Joe end up in a dangerous situation
1. Chapter 1

The Hunter

The man who now called himself Julian Farrow was an immortal, an extraterrestrial, and a genius. He was a genius of an order far beyond what most people would consider possible.

In short, he was the top one percent of the top one percent, his mind capable of making leaps no one had ever made before.

He was also a very Mad Scientist, with a very specific axe to grind.

Lycanthropy, Farrow had discovered, wasn't a supernatural condition. Not even remotely was it supernatural. Plainly put, it was a _virus_; albeit a very exotic one.

The question, for him, at least, was how to cure it. There _had_ to be a cure. Every virus he had come across before had eventually fallen to a cure…

Even the Terrans, long before now, in _Nineteen Eighty-seven _of their so-called _Christian Era_ had learned how to deal with viruses.

Through immunotherapy and vaccination.

Over the eons, Farrow had found a few people who had proven immune to the Lycan virus. But, although these people were immune, and stood a reasonable chance of imparting their immunity to their young, their blood couldn't cure those who were already afflicted.

Around twenty thousand to twenty-five thousand years ago, Farrow started a genetic breeding program, taking any unusual Terran individuals he could find, breeding them to the Immunes, hoping to enhance the Immune Factor, make it stronger.

It was a tribe of Skinwalkers-migratory clans of humanoid shapeshifting colonists who lived on Earth for a few millennia before moving on- who gave Farrow's breeding program the push it needed. And, several thousands of years after that, the Europeans crossed the ocean, colonizing the New World, calling it America.

There was tragedy, there was murder. But the European stock also carried some unusual bloodlines that further revitalized his breeding program.

Julian Farrow began to have hopes that his desired specimen-the one who would bear the _cure_ in his, or her, blood-might arrive somewhere in the mid twenty-first century.

He was off by roughly a hundred years.

…..

_1987 CE_

The carnival was in town, shrieking children running around, faces sticky with cotton candy, dragging hapless parents along.

"Alamo" Joe Rogan ignored them, the rides, the food vendors, and the sideshow attractions. He had bigger fish to fry.

"You see this man?" he showed the picture of Eric Cord to a carny. The other guy looked over at it, shrugged.

"Talk to the Boss," was all he said, before turning back to watering the elephant.

Rogan sighed, bit back a few choice words, then walked away.

The Boss, wearing a suit of an eye-watering shade of lime green made to stand out, was busy going over inventory with a junior manager. He looked up as Rogan approached, flashed him a toothy grin.

"What may I do you for?"

Rogan held out the photo of Eric Cord again.

"Huh…" the Boss said, looked back up to Rogan. "Looking for him?"

"He's wanted for murder back in LA," Rogan put the photo away. "You see him?"

"He was here last week," the man shrugged. "You need to talk to Etta. She's the Palm Reader. Over there."

He pointed.

Rogan swung his gaze around, saw the Palmist's stall, the gray-haired woman, head down as she examined the customer's palm.

He hung back until she was finished, a good twenty to thirty minutes. Then, the customer gone, she looked up, directly at Rogan.

Her eyes were cloudy, a milky white.

"Come here, young man," she raised a hand in greeting. Her voice sounded vaguely European.

_Young man…_

Rogan hadn't been called that in a while. He stepped forward. But now he wasn't sure if she could help, with her eyes the way they were.

"I see just fine, young man. Now, please take a seat," amusement in her voice. "May I have your name?"

"Joseph Rogan," he spoke formally as he sat at the customer's seat. "I'm a Bounty Hunter out of LA. I'm seeking Eric Cord."

"The Werewolf Lad…" she sighed. "I sent him off three days ago, to stay with a friend who can help him. Let me look at _you_ now."

Her hand shot out, firmly clasping Rogan's right hand in a surprisingly strong grip.

"Ah…" she looked up at him with those whited-out eyes. "Yes…you're the One…"

"The one…_what?"_

This last year, Alamo Joe Rogan had seen a lot of things he would have deemed impossible.

But that was before a werewolf had clawed its way out of his truck…

"The one _what?" _Rogan repeated the question.

"Never you mind, young man," Etta released his hand, gave it a pat. "Things will happen as they must…"

She rummaged around under her table, came up with a scrap of paper, and scribbled an address on it.

"That's where he is," she handed the paper to Rogan.

"Thank you," Rogan stood. "I'll be on my way."

…..

Etta stood too, and watched as the Bounty Hunter made his way back to his truck. When he was gone, she closed up her little shop, and went to the back of the shop to remove her makeup.

Like so many others living on Earth, she wasn't exactly what she seemed. Off came the milky-white contact lenses, and now two golden amber eyes stared back at her.

She dialed a number on her old rotary phone, and waited. Then, it was picked up…

"Julian," she said. "I've seen your man…He came here, asking about the Werewolf Boy. I sent him on to you. He should arrive the day after tomorrow. Yes…I applied my Sight to him. He's the one you've been seeking. But, Julian…be careful! What you plan to do…it is very dangerous. It could end badly; and he's not as strong as he thinks he is…"


	2. Chapter 2

Alamo Joe Rogan parked his GMC across the road. The address the old woman had given him had led him here. To an imposing mansion, replete with ivy-covered walls. The place was out in the boonies, _way_ out.

_Eric Cord's here._

_Supposedly…_

Rogan had come close to capturing his quarry a few times. The last time had almost cost him his life.

His hand came up to the long-healed scar at his throat.

_Claws…not teeth, thank the lord…_

Rogan sighed as he got out of his pickup.

In the immediate aftermath of the attack, waking up in the hospital, he'd been forced to face the possibility that he might have been infected.

_Lycanthropy…_

At that time, suicide felt like an acceptable option.

So, _why _did Eric Cord run? What hope did he have?

The doorbell, when he pressed it, gave a melodious string of tones.

Someone was in. Rogan head the movement, as someone came to the door.

Then, the door opened.

The man looked to be over seven feet in height, with angular features, long, bone straight black hair, and curiously tilted golden eyes.

A brief thrill of alarm tingled its way up Rogan's spine. The man didn't look quite…human.

"Ahh…" the man smiled as he looked down at Rogan. His voice, too, sounded vaguely European "You would be the Bounty Hunter Etta told me about."

A brief pang went through Rogan.

"She called you?" Had Eric Cord managed to flee yet again?

"Not to worry, friend," The man chuckled. "Your quarry remains here, safely in custody. I already know your name, so please accept mine. I am Julian Farrow, at your service…"

He bowed, hand on breast, a curiously old-world gesture.

"Please…come inside. There is coffee, and if we may chat a minute?"

Rogan hesitated, the man's…weirdness…and the fact he had a prisoner to collect…

"If it's all the same to you, Mr. Farrow, I have a man to bring back to LA."

"Mr. Cord is not going anywhere," Farrow said. "Please, accept a minute of my hospitality."

…..

_Here…finally here…_

Julian Farrow looked down at the Bounty Hunter.

_He doesn't know what he is…what he __**could **__be…_

Farrow led the Bounty Hunter to a small salon. The coffee was already brewed, one of the mugs he poured had a little bit extra.

Odorless, and tasteless-with not even a little bit of chemical aftertaste-it would do the job.

"I take it you prefer your coffee black and bitter?" he asked Rogan.

…..

"Ah…yes, thank you," Rogan accepted the cup, _very_ fine chinaware it looked like, gingerly, took a sip.

Like the chinaware, the coffee was high end, way above Rogan's pay grade.

"Tell me a little about yourself," Farrow took a seat across from Rogan. "Please."

_Strange guy…_

"Not much to say…" Rogan shrugged awkwardly. Another sip of the coffee, then he set it on the saucer on the table. "I'm a Bounty Hunter out of LA. Eric Cord is wanted for murder. I'm here to take him back."

That wasn't quite the whole truth, and Rogan knew it. The plan was to take Cord somewhere, and…use a silver bullet…put the kid out of his misery before…before he did too much harm.

And then…_what?_

There was another part of him that recognized that Eric Cord was a good man. But for the curse that made him change into a ravening beast.

Killing Eric Cord would save the kid's soul, at least. It would also be murder, and Rogan knew it.

But, what else could he do?

"You never expected to run into a werewolf, did you?" Amusement in Julian Farrow's voice.

Rogan blinked.

"How did you…"

"I'm a _scientist_, a bit of a mad one, I've been told," again, that rich chuckle. "I know about those sorts of things. I've been studying this practically my whole life. How's your coffee?"

He looked at his watch.

"It ought to be kicking in soon…"

"Kicking in?" Panic surging, Rogan stood…he _tried_, that is. His limbs refused to respond.

_Drugged…_

"I'll explain when I get you settled," Farrow stood, and walked over.

Paralyzed, there was nothing Rogan could do as Farrow removed the Bounty Hunter's sunglasses, put them in a breast pocket, and hauled him up over a shoulder.

Unable to move, Rogan was aware of being carried down a long hall. At the end of that long hall…

_An elevator?_

The door slid open, and Farrow entered, pressing a single button with a simple label.

_Downstairs_

The basement looked like your typical Mad Scientist's lair, long, sterile-looking halls, Laboratories, a few cells, with what looked like…shimmering forcefields?

Eric Cord was in one of those cells.

"You don't have to do this, Julian!" Cord called out. "It's too dangerous. You'll kill him. Or worse…"

Unable to move, or even speak, Rogan could only agree.

_Or worse…_

"Here we are!" Farrow exclaimed as he walked into what looked exactly like a hospital emergency room. Except for the manacles on the bed.

…..

It only took a minute for Julian Farrow to lay his prize down, and manacle him securely to the bed.

After a quick check of vitals-pulse was hammering, but a little fear was to be expected-Farrow picked up a folder that had been lying on a table by the bed.

"Joseph Rogan…" he read the file within aloud. "Alamo Joe to friends and colleagues, born in Nineteen Thirty-five, to Selma and Adam Rogan. One Quarter Native American…Comanche… on your Mother's side. You have a very interesting genetic history."

He looked up at Rogan.

"You should be able to speak and move now, Mr. Rogan," Farrow added. "The paralytic is fast-acting, and dissipates fairly quickly too."

…..

It was true.

Rogan could feel his fingers twitch. On pure instinct, he tried to pull his wrists free of the restraints.

No dice…

"What the hell do you want with me?" he snarled. "Or Cord?"

He heard Farrow sigh as he paced about the small room.

"The Werewolf Curse, Lycanthropy…" he spoke as he paced. "It's not a curse, at least not in the supernatural sense. Eric, for example, believed he could cure himself by killing his Progenitor-Janos Skorzeny-only to learn that, upon Skorzeny's death, his condition remained unchanged. So, now he's setting his sights on _Skorzeny's _Progenitor, hoping that killing Nicholas Remy will do the trick. Mr. Cord is, of course, utterly wrong; as will become totally clear once one realizes the cause of Lycanthropy is a _virus_, like the Flu, and various types of cancer."

Farrow stopped, looking down at Rogan.

"The trick in dealing with viruses is to find those who are immune to those viruses. Yes, there were humans who displayed immunity to the werewolf virus. Few and far between, but I found as many as I could, bred them to each other, and also to some…_ultrahuman _species that were running around on Earth several millennia ago. I've been following your family, the Comanche side of your Bloodline, for literally thousands of years; and _you, _Joseph Rogan, are the end result of my breeding program. I have hopes that, once exposed to an active strain of the virus, your blood shall develop into a…vaccine…an actual _cure_ for Lycanthropy."

Farrow turned to a small refrigerator cabinet, produced a syringe, full of a red substance.

"I took this from Eric Cord yesterday," he said. "While he was in full werewolf mode."

"No!" Rogan could hear Eric Cord's panic filled voice. "You don't know what you're doing! You don't have to do this!"

"Then who shall?" Julian Farrow asked. "How many thousands of souls have been murdered by people who didn't understand? How many have killed themselves in utter despair? And how many have embraced the darkness of the Beast with arms open wide?"

Now Alamo Joe Rogan wasn't frozen by drugs. It was naked terror that held him, as Julian Farrow injected Eric Cord's blood-and the werewolf virus-directly into his bloodstream.

"Now, it's done," Julian Farrow stood over him, empty syringe in hand. "Hate me, rail against me, if you must. In the end, you, Alamo Joe, will be thing that destroys Lycanthropy, and saves its innocent victims."

He nodded once, then turned and left the room, closing the door,

…..

Eric Cord, in the cell, slid to the floor, utter despair swamping him.

Even if Farrow was right, even if it was a virus, how could he expect Rogan to be a cure for the incurable?

_How am I going to get both of us out of this madman's clutches?_


	3. Chapter 3

Julian Farrow looked down at his victim. He had just given Alamo Joe Rogan an injection, a knockout drug. The bounty hunter would be out for a good four hours. He laid a hand on Rogan's forehead.

_Fever's spiking, pulse and respiration up. His body reacting to the Lycanthropy virus._

Well, it was done.

_Now, it's time to put them both together._

Farrow looked across the hall, at Eric Cord's cell. He was unconscious too. Gas through the air vents had done the job. With Cord unconscious, it was safe to turn off the force field.

Quickly, Farrow undid the manacles on the bed, and hauled the bounty hunter over a shoulder. It was but the work of a minute to deposit Rogan on the floor of the cell, and another few seconds to lay Rogan's Stetson, wallet, and sunglasses nearby.

That done, Farrow stepped outside, and turned the force field back on. Then, he went to the elevator, and went back _Upstairs_, back up to the House Proper.

Etta was there, in the Living Room, sitting primly on the sofa. Her gray hair was pinned back into a neat bun, and her white-out contact lenses were on.

"It's done, Etta," he bowed formally. "I've left them in the same cell, as you directed. Although I'm not sure why you insist on this."

"You used Eric Cord's blood," Serene white eyes looked back at Farrow. "Even if Rogan is all you hope he is, even if he does bear the cure in his blood, he is Linked, by blood, to Eric. They are Blood Brothers now; part of the same pack. They will face the future, whatever comes, together."

"I see…" Even though it was day, Julian Farrow poured wine, into two crystal goblets, offered one to Etta.

"To the future," he said. "To our two Blood Brothers."

…..

Eric Cord awakened with a start, sitting bolt upright. His last memory had been sitting huddled in the cell, worried sick about Rogan, lying manacled on a bed in the lab across the hall.

_Farrow infected him. He __**deliberately **__infected him…_

Cord knew, only too well, what the Lycanthropy virus did to a human being.

Insanity…Grief…Despair…

It was the hissing sound that alerted him. Not that it helped much.

_Gas…_

Upon awakening, Cord had taken a minute to assess his surroundings.

Rogan was here now, in the cell with him; cowboy hat, wallet, and shades just a few feet away.

Rogan seemed to be unconscious, curled in upon himself, almost in a fetal position. He was shivering.

_Fever?_

Cord crawled over, laid a gentle hand upon the other man's shoulder.

The bounty hunter flinched at the touch, body curling up tighter. But Cord felt the heat.

_He's burning up…_

It was just them in the cell. But there were bathroom facilities, a toilet and a sink. Running water. And a few washcloths.

_Maybe I can cool him down a little…_

…..

"You'll have to let them go, Julian," Etta set her empty wine glass down. "They can't stay here forever."

"I know," Julian Farrow picked up the wine glasses, carried them into the kitchen, Etta following behind.

He set the glasses in a sink, rinsed them thoroughly, put them on a rack.

"What would be a good time to release them?" he asked.

"As soon as possible," Etta spoke solemnly. "Right now, if you can do it."

"I could," Farrow agreed. "But Rogan wouldn't be particularly…travel-worthy right now."

"Eric Cord can carry him out if need be, Julian. And his pickup is right here, in the driveway. They need to be released for Rogan to become what he needs to become. That won't happen quickly, and it most certainly will not happen in a cell. Let them go, Julian. Now."

"We'll need to disappear," Farrow smiled. "Otherwise they'll think it's another kind of trap."

"I can take care of that," Etta said. "You need to turn off the force field."

…..

_Dreams…_

_Chasing a werewolf…becoming a werewolf…_

It was a cloth, cool and damp, on his face and neck that brought Alamo Joe Rogan back.

His hand lashed out, catching a wrist as he opened his eyes.

Eric Cord bending over him, damp washcloth in hand.

"Cord…" his voice sounded dry and dusty to his ears.

"How do you feel?" the younger man asked.

"Like shit on a shingle…" Rogan pulled himself up to sit, felt Cord lend a supporting hand.

It was truth. Rogan felt ill…feverish…dizzy… Then he remembered Julian Farrow…what the man had done…

Without conscious volition, he looked down at his right hand, at his palm.

It was clear.

For now.

He looked back up, met Eric Cord's eyes.

"I'm sorry," the other man lowered his eyes. "I had no idea Dr. Farrow was going to do something like this. Especially to you."

Rogan tried to keep his voice steady, to keep _himself _steady.

"How long…" his voice trembled only a very little. "How long do you think…before…Before I…"

He couldn't finish. He heard Cord's sigh.

"I don't know," Cord admitted. "Folklore notwithstanding, there doesn't seem to be any rhyme or reason to the Change. There's no regular rhythm to it. Not even the moon. It just…happens…when it happens."

He sighed.

"And that's only if Farrow is wrong."

"Well," Rogan snorted inelegantly. "He can't be right. Can he?"

"I don't know," Cord slowly stood. "Let's focus on trying to get out first. We can worry about everything else later. When we're out of here."

…..

They both heard the _snap_, followed by the smell of ozone.

"What the hell was that?" Rogan whispered.

Eric Cord looked around. Then he noticed the aperture of his cell. The…_door_…for lack of a better way to put it. It had been shimmering before…a force field in place.

The shimmer was gone.

"It's down!" he whispered. "The force field is gone!"

"You sure?" Moving unsteadily, Rogan had found his Stetson, wallet, and sunglasses.

Cautiously, Cord moved his hand, body cringing involuntarily, in anticipation of a shock, a repelling force. His fingers passed through empty air.

"Think we can go…" he stood, helped Rogan haul himself to his feet.

The bounty hunter was in poor shape right now. Feverish, he was clearly having trouble staying upright. Cord put an arm around Rogan's waist, held him upright as they slunk down the eerily silent hall.

"Hope the elevator works," Rogan muttered.

"The lights in the hall are still on," Eric Cord pointed out.

"Yeah…" Rogan nodded. "That's true."

"Where's your pickup?"

"In the Driveway last I knew." Strain in Rogan's voice. "Farrow may have moved it."

"Did he take your keys?"

"Not sure. Hang on..."

Cord held Rogan steady as he fished in the pockets of his denims.

"Huh…" Rogan looked down at the car-keys in his hand. "I'll be damned…"

The elevator was in working order, and the house _Upstairs_ seemed to be deserted. Keeping Rogan on his feet, Eric Cord steered for the front door, expecting Farrow to leap out of hiding any moment now.

But nothing stirred anywhere.

_Where did he go?_

The front door beckoned.

…..

The air was chill outside. But Rogan's pickup was right where he had left it.

_Thank the Lord…_

His hands were shaking too much though. He couldn't insert the key into the driver's side door.

"Let me…" Cord gently took the keys out of Rogan's hands. "You're in no shape to drive. Get in the passenger seat. I'll drive."

Rogan wanted to argue. It was _his_ vehicle, and Cord should have been his prisoner.

But Rogan felt like death warmed over. And now…

Now…_everything _was different. Silently, he took the passenger seat, watched as Eric Cord sat himself behind the wheel.

"We'll find somewhere to rest," he said. "Then, when you're feeling better, we'll figure out what to do."

_Yeah…_Rogan laid his head back. _We'll figure out what to do…_

…..

When the GMC Pickup was gone, the lights in the house flickered on, and the main coat-closet swung open.

"Our brave pair have made their escape," Julian Farrow announced.

"Yes," Etta stepped outside through the still open front door, looked back at the directing the escapees had driving off to. She sighed.

"Now, it's up to them."


	4. Chapter 4

_He's standing near the back of his GMC. Something's in the back. Whatever it is, it's putting up one __**hell**__ of a fuss. The Pickup is shaking, something pounding on the inside._

_He backs up a little, gun out._

"_What the hell you got in there?" a man asks._

"_I don't know…" Alamo Joe Rogan can hardly hear his own voice over the pounding-from both the inside of the pickup, and from his heart hammering in his ears. _

_Then, the back of his pickup explodes outward…_

Wide awake…chilled, Rogan found himself sitting upright in a small twin bed. The darkened room was small, with a single, curtained-off window. The other bed was unoccupied. His hat, wallet, shades, and car keys, were all sitting on the small table equally spaced between the two beds.

_How did I get here?_

Memory was slow in returning.

_Eric Cord…he drove us away from that place…He found a cheap motel, and some vending machine food…_

There was a small piece of paper lying under his sunglasses.

_I'm getting breakfast for us. I'll be right back._

_Eric Cord_

Even as Rogan read the note, he heard a key in the lock, and Eric Cord walked in, bag redolent of fried eggs and coffee in hand.

"You're awake!" there was relief in Cord's voice. "I was beginning to think you would never wake up."

"How long was I out?"

"A good twelve hours," Cord opened the bag. " I guess you needed the sleep. How are you feeling? Up to eating some food?"

"I'm feeling better," Rogan picked up his glasses, put them on. "I could eat."

"After breakfast, we need to move on," Cord spoke around a mouthful of fried egg sandwich.

"Where?" Rogan sipped his hot coffee. "It's not like either one of us can outrun…_this._"

"I know about my situation," Cord spoke between bites. "But we don't even know what _yours' _is going to be like. According to Farrow-"

"Farrow's a raving lunatic!" Rogan interrupted. "You think I'm gonna take his word as gospel, you've got another think coming!"

"Let's just move on," Cord spoke soothingly. "We can decide what to do later."

"That's what you said the last time," Rogan muttered. But Cord was right. They needed to out as much distance as possible between themselves, and Farrow.

…..

Much to Eric Cord's relief, Alamo Joe seemed to be fully recovered; the fever gone, and feeling much better.

The mismatched pair set off again, Rogan at the wheel this time. Eric Cord knew the risk he was taking, letting Rogan drive; be the one in charge.

But trust had to start somewhere. Somehow, Cord _knew_…Blood Link maybe…he was safe with Rogan now.

"You got a clue where we need to go?" Rogan asked. "I sure don't."

"How's the gas tank?"

"I filled it just before I met Dr. Farrow," Rogan glanced briefly at his right hand, the palm. "We should be good for a while."

"Try the next town over," Eric had noticed the surreptitious glance; said nothing. He was guilty of the same thing.

With good reason.

_His _hand was clear too.

_But I had the Change the day before Farrow…did what he did._

Usually, that meant at least a week, or even two, before it happened again.

_What do we do when I Change?_

_What do we do if __**he**__ Changes?_

…..

The next several days passed without incident. Just as well. It took time for Alamo Joe to get used to the notion of traveling _with_ a Wanted Felon, instead of taking him back to the authorities.

It took even more time to get used to the notion of traveling with a werewolf.

Today, a warm and sunny day, not even a cloud to be seen.

"Uh-oh…"

"What?" Rogan brought the GMC to a halt, parking on the side of the deserted twisty road.

"I need to get out right now," Eric Cord was speaking in a calm, _no need to panic_, tone of voice, looking at his hand, palm up.

And there that…_thing_…was.

A pentagram.

"Okay…" Rogan took a deep breath, a futile effort to steady his nerves. "What do we do?"

"I strip off and run into the woods" Eric pointed, teeth beginning to chatter. "You…maybe hide in the back of your pickup. You'll be safe there."

"Maybe _you_ could hide there," Rogan felt jitters too, odd pain shooting through his arms and legs. He looked at his hand. Still clean. "I had the back rebuilt-fortified-since the last time."

"Go and hide!" Eric Cord, now stripped down to his skivvies, urged. "I'll get back to you when I'm…done."

He ran off, into the woods, leaving Rogan alone, standing by his pickup.

Rogan looked at his hand. It was completely clean. But his bones felt like they were burning clear to a crisp.

_Jesus…_

With trembling hands, he opened the back of the pickup, hauled himself inside, and closed the back again, locking it firmly.

Rogan had put a bedroll in there, years ago, for all the times he'd had to stop miles from any inn or motel.

_Why am I hurting?_

His bones hurt, and his nerves were alight. Then, it came to him, and the answer filled him with pure, unadulterated terror.

_I'm feeling Eric Cord's transformation…_

…..

Early in the morning, the sun casting long shadows of trees across everything…

Naked, Eric Cord skulked back to the GMC Pickup. The clothes he had taken off last night now lay on the hood of the GMC, folded neatly.

Dressing quickly, he looked around.

_Where's Rogan?_

There, sitting, back to a tree, staring fixedly at the gun in his hands.

"Rogan?"

The bounty hunter looked up, features carefully devoid of expression.

"Don't know how you do it," the man muttered. "Go through…_that_, and still see the morning with hope in your soul."

"You felt it?" awareness hit Eric Cord.

"Every last bit of it…" Rogan lifted the gun; and Eric Cord suddenly knew what Rogan's intentions were. "I'm not gonna let that happen to me…"

He looked down at his palm.

"Still clean…" he muttered softly. "But I don't know how that could be."

"Don't…please don't do that, Rogan," Mouth dry, Cord spoke quickly. "Don't."

Still looking down at the gun…

"_You_ might be able to live like this," now Rogan looked up. "I can't."

Eric Cord's mind was clear of ideas. He didn't want the bounty hunter to kill himself. But he didn't know what to say.

Then, the words came to him.

"Rogan…_Joe_…" for the first time, he used the man's first name. "Let's see what happens with you first. Please? I overheard what Farrow said, you know I did. He said you came from a long line of Immunes. Maybe you won't Change."

"What if I do?"

"If you do…" Eric Cord sighed as he came to a decision. "Rogan, if you _do_ Change…if _that _happens, I'll do for you. I promise you; I will do that for you. But only if you Change."

He heard Alamo Joe take a deep breath, and let it out.

"I'll hold you to that," the older man spoke softly. Then, putting the gun away, he rose to his feet. "You okay now?"

"I am," Cord nodded. "For a while, at least. Can we go on?"

After a minute, Rogan nodded.

"Yeah…" he added. "We can."


End file.
